• Poets

    From Ilya Shambat@21:1/5 to All on Sat Oct 22 17:00:22 2022

    Poet - from afar starts a speech.
    Poet - for long leads the speech.

    With planets, with signs, with roundabout
    Tales's potholes... between yes and nay
    He even having swung from the belfry
    Took out the hook... For comets' way

    Is poets' way. The torn links of causation -
    That's his connection! Forehead up - despair!
    You know that the eclipses of the poets
    Are not foretold by the calendar.

    He's he, who mixes cards together,
    Who does deceive all count and weight,
    He's he, who asks from the school desk,
    Who towers head and shoulders over Kant,

    Who is just like a tree in its own beauty
    Within the stone coffin of Bastille.
    He is a train on which late are all comers,
    Whose traces have been chilled

    Always... For comets' way
    Is poets' way: burning and not warming.
    Tearing, not growing - to break up and tear -
    Your pathway, o the mantled curved one,

    Is not foretold by a calendar!


    There are the extras, the unneeded
    That do not fit within the norm.
    (Not counting in your dictionaries
    To them the landfill is their home).

    There are the hollow, the pushed-down,
    There are the mute - like dung,
    Nail - to your silken skirt hem!
    Dirt from under the wheels is wrung!

    There are the unseen, the imaginary:
    (Sign: speck of an autumn hen!)
    There are the Jobs within the world
    That would have envied Job - when:

    We're poets - and in rhyme with scapegoats,
    But from the shore thus having gone,
    We argue over God with goddesses
    And argue over girls with gods!


    What should I do, blind and a stepson,
    When all have fathers and have eyes,
    When on anathema like embankments
    Of passion! Where runny nose is the
    Name of cry!

    What should I do, with rib and thought
    Singing! - like wire! Siberia! Sunburn!
    Upon your dreams - like on the bridge!
    With their weightlessness
    In weights' world.

    What should I do, singer and firstborn,
    When gray is blackest in the world!
    Where inspiration's like in thermos!
    With this measurelessness in
    Measures' world?!

    By Marina Tsvetayeva
    Translated from Russian by Ilya Shambat

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